


As You Wish

by RobinsGirlWonder



Category: Once Upon A Time - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Fairytale Land AU, The Princess Bride - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:37:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinsGirlWonder/pseuds/RobinsGirlWonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As part of August appreciation week, I took the prompt “The Princess and the Puppet” (Wooden Swan in FTL land) and combined it with an anon prompt I got ages ago that I just couldn’t figure out how to write. Today seems like the perfect day to play with it, and I gotta say, this is super- cute for me. It’s kinda saccharine, but I love it. So, the Princess Bride for you all with a Wooden Swan twist. Enjoy. It’s also very Princess Bride in pacing, too, so it’s very quick, it’s not meant to be super-detailed and a novel. I just wanted to capture the fun of that story in my own way. It's also purposely over-written with the shmoopy-ness, just like the movie/book.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As You Wish

“Carpenter, I shall need a new armoire for my jewels upon my birthday,” The Princess’s words were lofty, possessing airs her mother constantly warned her against. But, her mother was not here. In the simple shop of the Kingdom’s greatest woodworker and his son, her Majesty, Princess Emma, she was her own mistress.

In her leather breeches, a cream-colored tunic wrapped around her waist and secured with a belt with a buckle fashioned by her mother’s dwarves, blonde curls spilled over her scarlet cloaked shoulders. She had worn her red cape since long before she had grown into it, but it was hard not to: Aunt Red _was_ her favorite aunt. Brown leather gloves made her fists look all the more coordinated with her wardrobe as she propped her hands on her hips and stalked towards the table that served as the centerpiece for Gepetto’s shop.

One of her gracefully gloved hands ran along the edge of the table, dancing atop a rocking horse, the legs clacking against the base in a gentle ‘clop, clop, clop,’ reminding her of her own chestnut outside, who was hoofing at the ground and snuffling into a feed bag outside. Her eyes scanned the workshop, interest captured by every little trinket and toy that the woodworker and his son crafted every day.

“As you wish, Princess.” The breathless, always amused and slightly sarcastic response came just as the woodworker’s son dropped his newest book onto the table with a loud thud, and sawdust billowed forth unceremoniously. Unruly but short brown hair peeked over the newest project in the Geppetto family wood shop, a unique contraption of metal and wood, unlike anything she’d seen.

“And whatever this is, it’ll have to wait.” She brushed it aside with another haughty wave of her hand, steering past him so she could lean a bit closer, hands on the table as she peered into those unusually blue eyes of his. “I have a question and you need to answer it for me.” At 17, she was to be married soon, although her father was certainly trying his damndest to ensure that did not happen for _quite_ a few years longer. And yet, at that moment, having just ordered the son of a woodworker to build her the armoire that would carry all her birthday baubles and gifts, which would be used to truss her up like a fine doll for balls and galas with the intention of marrying her… she wasn’t thinking of marriages and carriages.

She was thinking of Pinocchio. With his books and his trinkets, his inquisitive gaze, those smiles she felt like were reserved for her alone when his father was called occasionally to the castle for some project or another. They had grown up together, and yet they were worlds apart. It wasn’t until she’d reached her teens and demanded the freedom to travel into town unescorted (only granted after she bested her father and her mother with swordplay) that she had really begun to stop by the shop. At first, it was small things. Combs for her hair, stained beautiful shades of mahogany, then it was combs for her steed’s mane, and after that, it was a new stable door with a swan carved lovingly into the design of the port hole. Her projects grew as her interest in the quiet son of a woodworker who seemed all too interested in the Princess and yet… not nearly interested enough. Tormenting her brought no end of enjoyment.

“As you wish, Princess.” He chuckled, resting his arms across him on the table, casual, conspiratorial as he leaned closer. He pulled free his faded red – now hysterically pink – bandanna, probably to wipe his face.The skin on his cheeks was always stealing the sawdust from the air of the shop, and today was no different.  She chose days like today, though, on purpose. His father was gone, on some errand for the Blue Fairy, not to be back for days. She listened to gossip.

Emma leaned closer, brushing an idle few shavings aside with her thumb as she watched him. “You always say that.” She mused, her heart pounding in her chest at the proximity, but, well, Emma was never one to run away from taking risks. She liked the proximity, and she especially liked that his grin only widened a little more, eyebrows raising ever so slightly as she continued. “You should stop it. It’s not just what I wish, you know.”

“As you wish, Princess.” A throaty chuckle escaped him, making her hand quiver a little. From the sound, she told herself, and she pulled her hand away, like a cat who had suddenly realized that receiving affection was a sign of complacency. It drove her nuts. He did everything she asked without so much as a brief protest. And he _always_ said that, ‘As you wish.’

"What's this?" She pointed to a box on the table. The Princess was unused to having anything be off limits, so naturally, she went to pick the small box up, only for him to pull it from her fingers. "This... _mysterious_ box. What's in it?"

"It's awfully frustrating not knowing, isn't it?"

"Just tell me."

Pinocchio chuckled, those mischevious eyes still twinkling. "Why? Will I be flogged for carrying a box in these parts that the Princess cannot see?"

Emma propped her hands on her hips again. "I might make it so."

Pinocchio rose his eyebrows in challenge, standing back up, decision made. "I'm going to make you wait. You're going to have to wait a _long time_ and watch me carry it around. Hauling it to strange and mysterious places. And with each passing moment, the mystery will become more tantalizing." The way he said that, Emma found herself reminded that for as much as he worked with his hands, Pinocchio could weave a story unlike any other, and her skin shivered at the words. "Your imagination will inflame, but so will your frustration. Never knowing - only guessing, _what_ could _possibly_ be inside that box?" He locked gazes with her, and Emma felt a shock run through her as silence hung over them.

Emma walked away with a glare, sweeping her red cloak back over her shoulder while she looked around, changing the subject. “Why haven’t you married, Pinocchio? I thought the son of a woodworker would have found himself the daughter of a baker or something.”

“Do I look like I would marry the daughter of a baker?” He shot back, the first time he’d said anything other than his standard line while he took a pencil from behind his ear and fetched paper from the other table. He pursued her casually even as she wandered into the other corner of the shop to keep her distance.

“That’s not an answer to my question.” She turned to face him only to realize that he’d crossed the length of the room once more and was only a step or two from her. The door to the shop was closed. Her heart jumped into her throat.

“I guess it depends, then.” He grinned, crossing his arms across his chest and continuing his casual walk towards her. “Does your mother bake?”

Emma’s eyebrows shot up at the insinuation, and she cleared her throat, standing tall even as he loomed closer. “ _Terrible._ She burns everything.”

Pinocchio grinned, casting a glance upwards, as if considering the offer. In a quick moment, he sucked in his bottom lip while he thought, biting it with a nibble that made Emma’s legs shake slightly. “Well, then I guess I’m not going to marry the daughter of a baker.”

Silence fell over them as the realization clicked into place. Of course, she supposed… she knew all along. He hadn’t married, because…

The paper and pencil fell to the ground as Pinocchio’s lips captured hers and her cloak fell from her shoulders, all but forgotten.

The afternoon passed in a blur as those unspeakably soft hands for such a rough trade ran along her bare skin, and his kisses turned from chaste ones to passionate ones. His caresses turned into genuine massages, to stimulation and sensation, and Emma let herself completely forget propriety for just a few hours.

Once they were sated, covered in sweat and her red cloak, curled up in the corner of the shop, thoughts of courtship and the way her parents would hate her for saying ‘forget convention’ were running through her head.

And seemingly his. He stood and pulled her to her feet after some time, handing her clothes and dressing himself as well.

“What’s wrong?” Emma chuckled as she watched him flit about the shop, glancing out each window as if a boy with his hand in the sweets cabinet. “ _Pinocchio._ ”

“You should probably get back, your majesty. I have… we…” He took a deep breath, trying to collect his thoughts that were obviously scattered everywhere. “You’re not going to tell your parents, are you?”

“About… this?” Emma pulled her tunic back on and belted it, trying to ignore the soreness between her legs, a wholly new experience for her. “I don’t understand. I mean, I wouldn’t tell them about _that_ , but, about how you feel – “

“How I feel? You don’t know how I feel.” Pinocchio snapped, and turned to look at her, his mood souring. She didn’t know what was running through his head, but it must have been something bad. “In fact, you don’t even know what I’m going to do. It’s why you keep asking me.”

Emma pulled on her breeches and finished fixing her cloak to her shoulders again, annoyed and trying to ignore the way her stomach had turned ice cold. “Then what _do_ you plan on doing?”

Pinocchio shrugged. “Maybe go have adventures. Become a pirate, what other men do. None of this… sitting around my father’s shop making armoires for stuffy princesses who are _too young to court anyway_.” He reached up to run his hands through his hair. “My god, there is a special ring of hell where I’m going.”

Emma’s eyes widened as she realized he was… He was _toying_ with her.

“What?”

“I shouldn’t… _we_ shouldn’t. Your parents would kill me, and rightfully so. I just… I took…” He shook his head. “I’m not for you.” The tone of his voice changed and she noticed that he slipped his leg behind the counter as he talked. “I mean, maybe if I was a soldier, or a sailor - ”

“Then go do it.” She hissed, defensive, hurt and all too immature to be reasoned with. “Go on, then, carpenter. Go have your adventures and go to war like all little boys do.” She shoved him away with a quick elbow, then stalked past him. “Because it’s not like any princess would marry the son of a woodworker, now would she?”

Emma strode out of the shop with all the force and dignity she could muster, even as her heart twisted and her stomach churned.

She was so busy swinging back up onto her steed that she didn’t hear the carpenter as he stood at the doorway, holding that paper and pencil in hand still, watching her longingly and muttering “As you wish, Princess.”

When Emma received word that Pinocchio had enlisted with her father’s navy, she told herself she wasn’t surprised. She tried not to listen to the argument in her own mind about whether he was doing it to impress her or get away from her.

When the armoire arrived two weeks before her birthday on the 3rd of August, she ignored it and set it aside, although she found herself examining the grain of wood and each shade of stain, wondering how long his hands had spent crafting the design.

When they had the great ball with suitors from all over the kingdoms on the 5th of August, she found herself scanning the crowds in the vain hope of the son of a woodworker, all leather aprons and fingerless gloves with a jaunty red cap and its feather, but she saw only the blur of faceless shadows, glittering dresses, and in the end, a tired night where she turned all away.

When they received word the fleet had been attacked by the Jolly Roger, that the great brute Hook took no prisoners and the SS Lancelot had been sunk on the 5th of August, Emma cried until the 12th of August.

In September, she found she was with child, and her parents demanded all answers, but she gave none. Emma refused to speak of the father, of anything, and her parents were forced to make excuses, small at first, then a little more ornate.

On April 15th, she gave birth to a little brown-haired boy, and Emma tried to console herself with thoughts that his father saw him from heaven. The identity of the father was never revealed, and they waited until the child was almost 6 months old before they announced the birth to the kingdom.

And ten years passed. In those years, the former King George led another attempt to take back the kingdom. Geppetto's shop, and the old man, never survived. The Dark One escaped, and through it all, her parents kept the Kingdom together. And they made it safe once more.

On her son’s 10th birthday, Sir Maurice went to war with her father. His daughter had gone missing, had not been seen in years, but grief had enraged him, made him turn on his allies, one by one, convinced that if Rumpelstilstkin didn’t have her, then one of his fellow kings had. Along with rumors of the typical standard combat, news of Maurice paying the great Hook to turn privateer for him had reached the Kingdom.

Refusing to say why, Emma demanded control of her father’s navy for a mission to seek out the Dreaded Pirate Hook, Killian Jones of the Jolly Roger. Her father told her no, under no uncertain terms. He would not endanger his daughter, and they would not deprive their grandson of his mother.

But, she would not be dissuaded. On April 17th, two days after little Henry had turned 10 and was safely ensconced within her family’s care, a rumor surfaced. Hook had made port in Tortuga, a coastal town that had always been the breeding ground for pirates.

Emma took her prized steed and took off into the wilds. After a day’s travel, she arrived in the town. Black leather breeches, a dark merlot tunic and that same belt, the leather with its metal buckle of dwarf skill, all were covered by her deep red cloak. She had not worn it since the day she had learned Hook had killed Pinocchio. For all those nights, she would wake up shouting, screaming for mercy on the behalf of the simple son of a woodworker. It was _her_ fault he had gone to sea.

Ten years had given her perspective. She had been too young, he had been right to turn her down. She wasn’t ready. But, she had loved him, and had never loved since.

But, tonight. She would have vengeance. She was not worried about the fate of her father’s kingdom. She knew his army could withstand anything Maurice threw at them. But, Hook? Was hers.

Gaining entrance to the Jolly Roger had been much easier than she suspected, but perhaps it helped that she had snuck on behind a number of ladies of the nighttime profession. She slinked out of the torchlight near the gangplank, and stuck to the shadows as she made her way towards the captain’s quarters. As she rounded the corner, she was forced to duck beneath the stairs leading to the helm as a gruff voice sounded above them. Gravel and rum.

“Enjoy your night, boys. Tomorrow, we set sail for the Royal Port, and from there, we shall take the navy of Midas, and then? King James!” The pirates were far too distracted and inebriated to give more than a slurred cheer, and deep footfalls came down the stairway above her. She clung to the darkness like a second skin, waiting and watching as a black-clad figure, all leather and metal, stomped past. Trimmed facial hair, dark, but she couldn’t really see his face. He seemed to be wearing some sort of black bandanna over his head. A glint of silver at his waist told her all she needed to know. _Hook_.

Emma waited until he was heading towards the door before she went to follow him. The door opened, he stepped in, and Emma drew her rapier as she kicked him into the room and shut the door behind her.

A annoyed grunt sounded as he crashed into cabin wall, splaying his leather-gloved hands onto the wood to steady himself. Hold on. _Hands?_ Plural?

“You’re not Hook.” Emma breathed, the rapier in her hand still pointed at him, but her confidence momentarily shaken.

The figure turned to face her, the bandanna over his head completely obscuring who he could be under the scruffy beard and the peaking of chest hair from the V-neck of his shirt. “ _No,_ I’m not.” He chuckled, but it sounded rough, it sent a shiver up her spine that she told herself was fear. “But, I’m _sure_ you’ve heard of me.”

“The bandanna,” She pointed with her rapier as she listed off the features she knew of Hook’s right hand man. “The buckle, the beard, you’re the one they call Hook’s second, the one who ‘makes way’ for him. August W. –“

“Booth, yes.” He smiled, bowing dramatically. “At your service, Your Majesty Princess Emma.” In one smooth motion as he stood again, Emma heard the singing of metal, and she winced, holding her rapier at the ready as he drew his own blade. “Now, I just have one question for you, and you’re going to answer it.” His voice was more mirthful, something that sent another shiver over her. The two of them began to slowly circle as his blade tapped hers experimentally, but she didn’t bite. “Why are you on my ship? Your Charming father must be missing you.”

“I thought it wasn’t your ship, I thought it was Hook’s.” Emma snapped back, casual, almost flirty in her retort, but she was busy looking for the door again, debating if she could kill his first mate and still find the captain.

“I did get that impression. But, why do you want him so badly? My captain doesn’t take kindly to stowaways, even pretty ones with a reputation.”

Emma rose an eyebrow at the jab. She swallowed, still watching him, tilting her head slightly as her brow furrowed. “He killed someone very dear to me, and I’m going to make him pay for it.”

There was another smile, one that felt at once familiar and also painful. There was a sorrow, no, an anger, a sharp edge to that smile as they kept circling and he laughed. “He killed someone? What, one of your many lovers over the years?”

“My _what?_ ” She snapped, her voice pitching as she tried to contain her indignant rage. “How _dare_ you! I have only loved one man in my _life_ and your captain _killed_ him!”

“Oh, please!” He laughed, a cruel sound of a man who was bitter and broken. _Exactly_ what Emma expected of a pirate. “Hook has killed _many_ men! Hell, I’ve been killing men since you were a _child_ , Princess. For all you know, I killed your precious toy.” Emma swallowed, momentarily distracted. What if he had? “I mean, it’s possible.” He continued, the metal singing gently as their blades danced in the candlelight. “I’ve killed a lot of people. Tell me about your ‘love.’ Was he one of those pompous windbags like your last suitor?”

 At the very idea that someone would mistake Pinocchio for one of those boorish brutes who had come to her father’s kingdom seeking her hand, she lashed out, the rapier flying as the two of them engaged. “He was the son of a woodworker, and he was a thousand times better than you!” She hissed, eyes narrowing as she gazed into those cold, icy blue eyes beneath the bandanna. “He was _simple,_ ” A thrust. “ _Poor,_ ” another thrust with a slash across the chest, nearly catching his leather. “And _perfect,_ with blue eyes that twinkled with mischief and curiosity.” Emma forced herself to backpedal as a return came her way, almost harsher than it intended. “And you took that light from his eyes when you and your brute of a captain came upon my father’s navy and you attacked the Lancelot. And Captain Hook never takes prisoners.”

“Yes, well, the captain can’t afford to make exceptions. I would know, being first mate’s hard work.” He knocked her rapier aside, making a move to grab her wrist, but Emma swiveled away and brandished her blade again. The dance began again. “I mean, think about it. If word leaked that Captain _Hook_ had gone soft, then people would mutiny, disobey, and he doesn’t keep them in line. _I_ do. So, it’d be work, work, work, all the time –“

Emma felt anger surge from deep within her, and she swiped, her rapier hitting his cutlass with a rich clang, one that made her bones rattle. “You mock my pain!”

“Life _is_ pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.” He kept his cool, _how_ was he doing that? Blood rushed through Emma’s ears as she tried to place why that bitterness he seeped from every pore seemed familiar. “I remember the carpenter, I think. That would be… _so_ long ago, though. Practically another lifetime. About ten years, going on eleven?” He watched her as Emma felt a new sense of loathing build from her core, warring with her innate knowledge that to fight while enraged would be a death sentence. “He died well.” The knife sunk in as the pirate confirmed what Emma had already known. Pinocchio had died years and years ago, too long ago. “That should please you. He didn’t cry, he didn’t beg, he didn’t whimper of all the failures he may have made. All he said was ‘Please. I need to live.’” Maybe it was how he said it, maybe the memory was as etched into the pirate’s mind was Pinocchio’s voice was in hers, but she could have sworn she heard him in that moment. “It was the please that caught my attention.” He held a finger up, a disbelieving, bitter smile gracing his features as he continued. “I was such a young pirate then, I didn’t know how to ignore the pleas of those we captured. So, I asked him. I asked him what was so important for him here in this life. And you know what he said? ‘True love,’ he replied.” The pirate stalked closer, the tone of his voice striking something deep within, something that threatened to let the tears well up and bubble over, and her rapier faltered for a moment, just long enough to let the pirate push it aside. “And then he spoke of a girl of surpassing beauty and _faithfulness_. A girl who was so strong in her convictions that he wanted to make himself a man _worthy_ of her. And I can only assume he meant you. And you know what?” He smirked, cruel and somehow more deeply pained in those blue eyes than she knew how to comprehend. “You should thank me for putting him out of his misery before he found out what you really are.”

Emma steeled herself, pulling herself up with dignity again, to face him. “And what exactly am I, Booth?”

“He spoke of your _faithfulness_.” The pirate hissed, and in a smooth move, he grabbed hold of her rapier with one leatherclad hand, moving the blade aside as he quickened his pace, closing the gap between them. “He spoke of you like you were water in the _deserts_ of Agrabah, as if your eyes were the jewels of Olympus and your voice smooth as honey in the land of Chin, and you are _not, madam_. Tell me, when you found out your precious son of a woodworker was gone, did you find the first brute you could be within the hour, or did you at least wait a week before you filled your belly with a bastard child!”  With that last blow, Emma staggered, her rapier nearly falling from her hands as she said the first thought to burst from her mind.

“The child is his!” She gasped, shaken to the core by the raw emotion she saw in those eyes, those eyes that she thought she didn’t know. He was like a force of nature, something primal and raw, of a different world than she ever expected him to be.

And those eyes changed. In that moment, he faltered. “He’s… what?”

Emma felt the change, but her mind snapped into survival, and she acted accordingly. “That was your _one_ chance, Booth. You mocked my pain once, you will _not_ do it again.” She hissed, and she smoothly slipped her rapier free and aimed for his leg, stabbing him with all her strength.

And the sound was decidedly wood.

The pirate reached down, grabbing the sword, his voice hitching into something less dignified. “As you wish, Princess!”

Emma stopped, frozen in her tracks. “Pinocchio?” She gasped, trying to put the pieces together. She reached down, pulling the bandana right off of his head. A faded pink bandana fell out from underneath it, one that she knew all too well that met those eyes staring up at her in pain and confusion. She reached down, pulling at his pant leg in what would have been comical if she hadn’t been so angry, and saw the wooden surface beneath. “Your leg! It’s _wood!_ ”

“Of course it is, that’s what happens when I lie!” He snapped back, irritated with the blade in his shin before he could finally free it. “It’s been that way since you left the shop, since I lied to you about how I felt.”

Emma paused, looking up at him. Nothing made sense, she felt a little faint, and she dropped her rapier as he pulled it from his clothes. “I don’t understand…”

“It’s such a long story, Princess, and I just don’t have the time. But, I have to get you off of the ship.”

“Off the ship?” She echoed, confused. “Why?”

“Because of Hook. He isn’t going to appreciate that you’re here, when we’re working for your father’s enemy. I’m _sorry_ , Emma, I didn’t think you would get this close, and I figured Hook wouldn’t take the deal. I was angry - “

“You were angry so you were going to attack my _home_?” Emma angrily snapped, but from the look on his face, it was clear that was _not_ what he’d meant to say. 

“So this is the lass you were waxing poetic about? I thought you said she was strong and intelligent.” A new voice, smooth like a fine wine, cooed as the door to the cabin had opened and new steps met them. “Maybe I shoulda killed you.” The other man chuckled, a great, menacing silver hook atop his right wrist, one he was polishing quite casually. “Come come, August. She’s just a girl.”

Pinocchio stood and wrapped an arm around the Princess beside him, holding her close, almost too close for comfort given the confusion of the situation. “She is so much more than ‘just’ anything, Killian.”

“Oh, aye, that I can see. But, she _is_ James’s daughter, and _someone_ thought it would be a worthwhile job to work for King Maurice. And with her estranged grandpa whispering in Maurice’s ear-“

“George?” Emma gasped, her eyes widening. Unbelievable. He’d been exiled years ago, no one had heard from him.

“I dunno about you, but I don’t want to be in the middle of that. So, this is a bit of a predicament.” Killian – Hook – was far too casual for Emma’s liking. He was slimy, like he was one step from throwing them both off of the ship. Not that she minded, she could take him with a hand behind her back, that wasn’t the point.

“Look, let me take her back to her father, I’m sure I can smooth the whole thing over, and we’ll be back to work like usual.”

“August, lad, I can’t just let you leave with her. You know the policy.” It was so odd, even as Emma registered Hook pulling his sword and Pinocchio – August W. Booth, the _pirate_ was her carpenter? – pulling his own.

Pinocchio sighed beside Emma. “I know.”

“You’ve been a decent follow, lad, but rules are rules. I hate to kill you.”

“You’ve been a decent captain. I hate to die.”

Before Emma could actually say or do anything, cutlasses flashed before her, and Pinocchio and his pirate captain Hook were suddenly in a duel. There wasn’t time for this! That was not why she’d come there! She wanted answers, she _needed_ answers, and gods be damned, she was going to _get_ them!

So, naturally, when the butt of her rapier hit the back of Hook’s head and he went down to kiss the floor spectacularly, Princess Emma’s face was smug with pride, and Pinocchio was staring at her as if she’d just destroyed some implied pirate code she was unaware of.

“Did you have to knock him out?”

“I thought you were dead for _ten years_!” Emma snapped in response, as if that should explain everything. The flash of guilt across his features made her give pause, momentarily, until she remembered that while she’d thought he was dead for ten years, he’d been toying with her. _Again_. Their entire argument. “And I have _not_ forgiven you for lying to me! Even if your leg _is_ wood!” Emma continued to replay everything she’d experienced in the last few moments as Pinocchio pulled Hook over to the captain’s bed, threw him in and tapped his cheek playfully.

“Rest well, Killian. I am sure I will see you again soon.”

“And _August?_ You picked the name _August?_ ” The look he shot her was another bolt of emotion, one that sobered her.

“It was the month everything happened. It was the only thing about you I could hold onto.” Emma softened at the tone in his voice. They weren’t the children they used to be. He was a man, a real, genuine man out of that story her family had always told her about how he used to be a puppet. He was _flesh_. And he’d lied to her the day they’d let giddy childish nerves and lust cloud their judgment.

And she’d repaid that kindness by hating him the moment he came back to her.

“Oh, Pinocchio…” She whispered, and before she realized what she was doing, she had pinned him to the wall with kisses, her arms wrapped around his neck as he returned the embrace.

“Emma…” He breathed, but she silenced him with more quick, fevered kisses. His hands went to her wrists, and for a moment, she thought everything would be fine. She’d found her carpenter, the love she thought she’d buried for good and poured into raising his son. But, then he pulled her hands away from him and pushed her gently away again. “ _Emma._ Princess, I have to get you home. Please. Can we do that? Your father… he needs to know King George is involved. Let me tell him, it’s the least I can do.”

And so they did.

With the wind at their backs, Emma and her carpenter fled the Jolly Roger in the darkness.

The following days sped by in a blaze of action. They arrived back at the castle, only for Emma to be whisked away and scolded by her mother for leaving. Pinocchio divulged everything he knew about King Maurice’s alliance with King George, in which her own father divulged more pertinent details. The knowledge that Rumpelstiltskin was actually working _for_ George.

After that, Pinocchio helped left again without a word. At first, Emma was sure he would flee, never return to the castle, but to her surprise, he returned. With _Hook_. And quite a black eye.

There were jabs about skinning crocodiles and having giants for hired help. There were plans among plans, and Emma was right at the center of it with her parents, helping dictate troop movements while they waited for the final push.

Pinocchio and Emma had hardly spoken in all the preparation, and yet she felt as though everything was supposed to happen this way.

Finally, with the thought of battle looming over the entire kingdom, the night fell and Emma retired to her chambers. But, sleep wouldn't come, neither would anything to soothe the restlessness she felt knowing that Pinocchio was just down the hall. _Alive._ And he had a son, a son he'd never met. She'd loved him all her life, and yet her words had sent him on a journey where he'd become a pirate.

A knock made her stir, sweeping her covers away and standing. She padded over to the heavy door, swinging it open as the brief draft of wind made her white nightgown swirl around her feet.

"Pinocchio." She whispered. It was all she could manage. Still clad in all of his leather and black cotton, with a belt buckle from parts unknown, he was so different and yet... so much the son of a woodworker she'd never forgotten.

"May I come in?" He asked, all politeness, even if he was all pirate as well.

Emma's bravado rose right back up along with an eyebrow as she surveyed him. "I don't normally allow pirates into my room."

Pinocchio's smile was so unlike the others she had seen in the last few days, and he reached up, pulling his bandana from around his neck and wringing it in his hands. "Do you allow carpenters?"

She pulled him inside and closed the door, watching him walk to her bed before he chose to unceremoniously sit in the chair at her mirror instead. Silence fell over them as he fished through her things with all the curiosity of that boy she'd grown up with. "I died the day you left." She said softly, leaning against the door as she watched him, bathed in moonlight. "I nearly put a knife to my breast."

"You know, there's a shortage of perfect breasts in this world." Pinocchio quipped as he stood quickly, striding closer to her, tone light, even if his expression was serious and grave. "It'd be a pity to damage yours." Emma's cheeks flushed at the insinuation, but the warm smile on his face was something that made her feel... like she was the only woman he would ever look like that for. The only woman he would reinvent himself for. "It's an honest commentary, that's all I'm saying." He grinned, and he reached up, bare fingers that used to be soft, now calloused from years at sea, brushing her jawline. "So, what stopped you?"

"Henry." Emma breathed, reminding her of how much time had passed between them. How different they were.

Those blue eyes of his took on a different tint, one just short of wonder. "And he's..."

"Your son." A hopeful smile tugged at her lips. "No one knows. I always kept it secret. Except to Henry."

"I'm a father..." Pinocchio breathed, and he stepped away until he took a seat on her bed, face knit in concentration that reminded her of watching him work. "Can I see him? Would he even want to see me?"

Emma faltered, then moved to join him. She took a seat beside him, reaching out to take his hand. "When the battle's over. I promise." He didn't reply, but a squeeze back of her hand was all she needed to know. She needed to take the conversation in a new direction, to distract him from the impending meeting with a boy he didn't even know had been his. "There is one thing I don't understand. You travelled with Captain Hook for ten years, but he had a first man with him since he returned from that Neverland in my parents' youth."

"Well, Princess..." Pinocchio sat up, that mischievous curiosity she hadn't seen since that day in the shop gleaming in his eyes. "Even I am surprised at all of life's little quirks." He looked up at the sky, biting his lip in a way that made her shiver. "See, what I had said before, that was true. I actually did impress Hook, and his first man. But, his first man was actually his red-capped fellow named Smee that had stood in with Hook since he took up a quest hunting for a 'crocodile.' Not much of a stomach. The crocodile.... That was Rumpelstiltskin. He had lost the one woman he ever loved to the Dark One, and so my tale of how much I..." He trailed off before turning to face her again. "Loved you... Hook decided something. He said 'All right, lad.'" Pinocchio affected that smooth and overdone accent that Hook favored so well. "'Find a new name for yourself on my ship. This is my ship, so let me tell you the rules. You work well and follow orders, I'll let you stay for the night. But, I'll most likely kill you in the morning.' And for a year he said that. 'Have a good night, August, lad. Good work, sleep well. I'll most likely just kill you in the morning.' And so there I stayed. And I had adventures. I traveled with him, I learned how to fence, sail, fight, anything and everything anyone would teach me. Of course, this got in the way," He knocked on his wooden leg with a wry grin. "But, Hook never asked. I suppose with a hook for a hand, he wasn't in a position to judge. So, then one day, it happened."

"What did?"

"Hook promoted me. I'd picked a first name, and so he wanted me to pick a full pirate's name. I chose Berth originally, for a wide berth, since I cleared the road for him, but it sort of slurred into Booth, and well... August W. Booth. It has a ring to it."

Emma crooked an eyebrow upwards. "Really? With the middle initial?"

He shrugged with another smile. A long moment passed, and he reached into a pouch on his belt, pulling free a very recognizable small box, one she hadn't seen in years. He held it up to her, opening it with a flick of his wrist. A small wooden swan, carved with precision that only the son of a woodworker could have. "It's for you." He softly muttered. "I intended to give it to you with your birthday, but... I couldn't just send it to you."

Emma reached out, her fingers running along the stubble where once had been clean-shaven. She imagined picking sawdust from those bristles, and her smile must have changed again, because he reached up to take her wrist, gently kissing each finger. "I love it. Thank you." Her smile softened a bit more. "I truly thought you had died..." Her voice had vanished, abandoning her again.

Pinocchio slipped his free arm around her waist, pulling her close. "Death cannot stop true love. Only delay it for a little while."

As he drew her in for another kiss, the war hours away, she muttered against his lips. "I will never doubt again."

The night was one they would never forget, the kind of night that dreams and the greatest literature was built from.

But, in the end, morning came. And wars are hardly won by the Kings and Queens anymore, but rather by the soldiers who give their lives. That morning, Pinocchio dressed and kissed her, then left to help her father with his battalion. Her parents were on the field.

Emma and Anton left together, the friendly giant quickly pushing back Maurice's forces. As the battle lingered long into the evening, though, Emma was forced to retreat when she took an arrow to her shoulder.

And, so, she returned to the castle, patched up and doted upon with much frustration on her part.

As she stood, alone on her balcony, watching as Maurice’s men refused to go down without a fight in the quickly fading twilight, she heard her door open, expecting her boy. She’d promised Pinocchio he could speak with him after the battle was won, and she was sure word of her injury had reached his all too curious ears.

“If it isn’t my granddaughter…” The voice of King George was the last that she was expecting, and Emma dashed for her rapier, only to be blocked by the older king as he tugged her into the room. “You and I, my dear, are going to have a very important discussion before your parents return from the battlefield to see your armies routing.”

“We are _winning_ , you coward!” Emma tried to wrench her arm free, but couldn’t. A resounding thud shook the foundations of her room, and she turned in time to see a bright purple light flash across the sky. “No…”

“You _were_ winning. But, now? The Dark One and I have what we want.”

Emma swallowed, glancing at the battlefield below. Anton. Hook. Her Aunt Red. Her _parents._ Pinocchio. Everyone she knew was fending off the next great conflict, and she had somehow left herself undefended. “What do you want, George?”

He fingered the wooden swan on that telltale string around her neck, as if he knew how easily he held her heart in his hands. “I want the new heir to the throne.”

_Henry._

“His father will come for him.”

“Is that so?” George chuckled. "I would not say such things if I were you."

When the fighting stopped outside, Emma had already been tied up in the throne room, where Rumpelstiltskin had been watching and taunting her, even if she wasn’t about to give into his efforts to draw her into conversation. She had to hope that the others could figure out what was going on in time.

George entered the hall with Henry in his firm grip.

“Mother!” The boy called, trying to pull himself free from George, only for the older man to lift him up with ease.

“Now, now, Henry, don’t want to spoil the best part –“

“I’d let go of my son if I were you.”

Emma froze as Pinocchio's voice echoed through the main throne room. Beleagured, bloody and leather armor in tatters, his cutlass brandished towards the exiled King. The stormy seas in his eyes, he was a force of nature that threatened to tear down the walls of the castle. If he had ever felt like he wasn't worthy of her, he was. He _most definitely was._

"Surrender!" George snapped, holding Henry closer, pulling his own knife from his belt and threatening the child with it.

"You mean you wish to surrender to me?" Pinocchio chuckled, a sound that scared her all the more in the stand-off. "Very well, I accept." He sheathed his cutlass and motioned for another figure to come into the doorway. Hook was equally worse for the wear, his eyes scanning the room, but he stopped as he saw Rumpelstiltskin beside her.

"Ah. So, we meet again, crocodile. Hello, Rumpelstiltskin. Remember me? Killian Jones? You killed the love of my life. Prepare to die." Hook brandished his own cutlass all the more dramatically, and she felt the air beside her suddenly breeze past. The Dark One had magicked himself to the other side of the room.

"Have to catch me first, Dearie." And then he was gone, running down the halls with a gleeful, maniacal laugh. The laugh of a man who had lost everything that could have kept him on kilter.

Pinocchio turned to the other pirate and smiled. "Go for it, Hook. You've waited a long time."

Hook flipped the cutlass in his hand once more and gripped it tight. "I'm gonna skin me a crocodile."

Emma's wrists began to work against the ropes she found herself bound in, but she had a feeling it was going to take more than gumption and conviction to do so.

"Very well." George was saying as Pinocchio stepped forward again. "Do you _really_ want to risk the child's life? You... you _scoundrel?_ "

"I prefer the term opportunist. August W. Booth, your ex-majesty."

There was a tense pause as the old man realized who he was facing. He shoved Henry to the ground with ease behind him, and Emma jumped, anger surging upward again as she watched her precious boy wince, clutching his elbow. Her hands kept working tirelessly, trying to claw at the ropes with her nails.

"Very well, then, _Booth_. To the death."

"No!" Pinocchio's voice rose, firm, unforgiving, but still that light tone, as if he was telling the tale of yet another storm at seas. "To the pain."

George paused, glancing back at Emma as if she had apparently chosen the strangest of bedfellows. "I don't think I'm quite familiar with that phrase."

"I'll explain." Pinocchio shrugged. "And I'll use small words so that you'll be sure to understand, you warthog-faced buffoon."

George bristled, his sword still brandished, but his ego shaken. "Well, then, what are you waiting for?"

Pinocchio grinned, flipping the sword in his hand, truly the August W. Booth he had adopted over the years. He was at once the writer, carpenter's son, and dreamer while at once fierce, protective, a father wolf returning to defend his pack. "It's awfully frustrating not knowing, isn't it?"

"Excuse me?" Emma's heart thudded in her chest as she felt George's discomfort from across the room.

"You really want to know, don't you?" Pinocchio chuckled. "Fine, well, first of all, that won't be the last time you're insulted. To the pain means the first thing you will lose will be your feet below the ankles. Then your hands at the wrists, next your nose." He motioned with his cutlass to the parts as he mentioned them, and Emma winced as she worked to free herself.

"Then I supposed my tongue." George muttered, unpleased, and he walked closer. "I should have just killed you walked in. I will remedy that now - "

"I wasn't _finished_." Pinocchio's voice was still measured and mellow, but full of a darkness of fear for his child. She didn't know what to make of that, but it somehow soothed her. "The next thing you will lose will be your left eye, followed by your right."

"And then my _ears,_ yes, I understand, just get _on_ with it - " George sighed in frustration.

"Wrong." Pinocchio tilted his head, as if he was doing something so simple as, well... stuff. "Your ears you keep, and let me tell you why. So that every shriek of every child at seeing your hideousness will be yours to cherish. Every babe that weeps at your approach, every woman who cries out 'Dear _god_ , what is that thing?' will echo in your perfect ears. That's what 'to the pain' means. It means I leave you in anguish, wallowing in freakish misery forever."

Silence descended over the throne room once more, and Pinocchio simply stepped forward once more. On what was _once_ a wooden leg. Emma's eyes widened as she realized in that moment, his leg had healed itself. "Drop your sword. You killed my father, you don't get to _touch_ my son and his mother."

The sword fell with a clank. _Just_ in time for the dwarves and her parents to arrive for reinforcements.

The resulting victory was a blur. Emma hadn't been able to free herself, but she'd done a fantastic job in the attempt, and it only took a quick swipe of Pinocchio's cutlass to free her. He pulled her close, kissed her and held her so tightly she couldn't breathe.

The surprise was the small arm that came around their legs, holding tightly. "Mother!"

Emma bent down and held her son close, and in a sobbing breath, blurted to her boy. "This is your father, Henry." And finally, father, son and mother were all united.

In the end, Hook lost his crocodile. The Jolly Roger left port before the battle was even over, ( _"Told you he wasn't a good man", Pinocchio had groused)_ and tales of the Dark One running to the land of a princess who supposedly slept for all seasons.

But, what mattered was that Pinocchio finally had proven himself. To his own satisfaction, to Emma, to Henry, and to Emma's family.

As dawn arose, Pinocchio and Emma knew they were safe. A wave of love swept over them. Since the invention of the kiss, there have been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure.

This one left them all behind.

**The End.**


End file.
